I like to think that I tried.
But at the same time
they used to like to think that the world was flat
and that green eyes meant that you were cursed.
I also like to think that I would go to the end of the galaxy for you,
just so that I could fetch a few stars and bring them back
to show you that not every light is burnt out yet.
I like to think that the scars on both of our wrists
will fade with time and will heal with care.
But so far, the redness has not subsided.
Your voice is still ringing in my ears.
I’m not sure what you are saying, but you’re there.
And you’re here.
For the most part, you are everywhere.
And if I could spend one more restless night
curled in your arms so that I could kiss the inside of your wrist
and hope for magic to appear, I could die tomorrow
and be okay with that.
My tombstone could be painted yellow
and my corpse could grow flowers.
All because I hoped for a little magic
while the howling wind touched the windowpane
and your breath quickened on my shoulder.
I would let the coolness of your eyes
take my memory back to the Bahamian sea.
I would let the flutter of your eyelashes remind me
of the rainbow parrotfish and the fire coral.
I would let the salty softness of your skin sink into mine
so that maybe I won’t be so sharp anymore.
I would let myself drown in you
and this time
I wouldn’t call for help.
I would save my last gasping breath
to let you know how beautiful you are.
Then I would succumb to your sea
and I would sink to the bottom
to let my corpse plant flowers in you.

It's difficult to describe your kisses
They taste like Ocean's Spray
Feeling the rushing waves of your highest happinesses
And tasting the stinging salt of your deepest regrets

Your kisses take me to the Eye of a Hurricane
Gently caressing in your calm storm
But feeling the wind currents of your demons
Circling around me and tumbling like the drain of an antique bathtub

You kisses take me to a Sand Storm
In the midst of your golden crystals
Flying through the air
Just barely missing my eyes

I hope you I can kiss you forever
Because I want to visit more of the Earth's Wonders

she sat in her room,
in front of her broken window.
the glass was tinted black.
the metal frame was starting to rust.
the bottom left corner of the window,
was shattered.
shattered by what?
shattered by her fist,
2 years ago.
she could still see,
her blood stains at the ridges.

she sat there on the cold ground,
her hand holding her screams.
she wanted to let everyone hear,
and know,
that she wanted some love,
some attention,
some words of advice.
so she screamed out of that broken window,
but no one heard her.

she sat there on the stone ground,
her hand holding her heart.
she wanted to let everyone see,
and know,
that she wanted someone to understand,
someone to love her,
someone to kiss her cuts.
so she threw it out of that broken window,
but no one saw her.

she sat there on the blood stained ground,
her hand holding her soul.
she wanted to let everyone feel,
and know,
that she wanted her dreams to come true,
her wishes to be fulfilled,
her love to be reciprocated.
so she let it out of that broken window,
but no one felt her.

she sat there on the tear stained ground,
her hand holding herself,
she wanted everyone to smell,
and know,
that her hair smelled like rose and lilies,
that her clothes smelled like lemon and rosemary,
that her skin smelled like strawberries and cream.
so she freed herself out that broken window,
but no one smelled her.

she sat there on the heartless ground,
her hand holding her dreams,
she wanted everyone to taste,
and know,
that her favorite food was marshmallows,
that her sweet tooth loved chocolate,
that her kisses tasted like the sun.
so she said goodbye to her dreams out that broken window.
but no one tasted her.

no one cared.
{gemi}

She's my kind of rain
I want to feel her all the time .
Through the darkest of days
Where the sun doesn't shine.
I want to be the one to cradle her .
In her most times of fear,
That's when the loud cry goes out.
Thunder.

She's upset and she's a mess.
But to me you are still beautiful.
You might have makeup smeared but
"That's okay",  I thought,
As I wiped it away.
The rain took out everything last night. The thunder had now stopped, and the sun now shines.

She is not only my favorite kind if rain.
She's my soul on a sun shiny day.
She's my everything, that the world and solitude can't be.

I was 17,
when we discussed workout routines in gym,
thin legs branching from ruby-red shorts,
skin pale and dappled in winter air.
I described my workout of 200's.
200 crunches, 200 sit-ups, etc. etc. etc.
"You make me feel fat,"
my model- built friend complained.

I stared down at my shrinking thighs,
wondering how fat she would feel,
with hollow spaces beneath her skin,
numbed by the gnawing of metabolism on muscle.
If she could feel her labored breaths circulate
through drained limbs,
and saw the stars and sparks in the haze of exhaustion,
that perpetuated around me.
If she shivered
walking home in without a coat in December
simply because
Cold burned more calories than warm.  

At 17, I learned
Electric blankets were invented for asylum patients
so they wouldn't freeze when they were lain outside
to get fresh air.
I shivered under mine in a warm house--
strangled by three layers of hoodies,
a morbidly comical scene-- the skeletal inmate cowering
in masses of cotton
and still cold.

The skeleton in the mirror had no eyes,
Only its bloated stomach stared back at me.
Forget the thigh-gap,
the stomach was the only thing that mattered.
It should be as flat as the unleavened bread
I refused at communion:
I didn't know how many calories it had.

I was 17,
when the word "beauty" fell from my vocabulary.  
Lank, unwashed hair hung limp to hide the
Inflamed scratches on my face: feeble efforts to eradicate
the hatred, guilt, over two extra bites,
and what I had become.
Here I was, in all my gollum-like, two by four perfection:
except the stomach.
That ****** bloated *****
I wished I could tear it from my body,
Throw it aside to rot on the heap
of moulding high-school dreams
I kept in the corner of my room.

But it remained, day after day,
the stubborn thing stayed on,
even when filled with saltwater,
to force it to give up the last bit of its contents.
Three mugs, and several tablespoons later
it finally relinquished,
in the emergency room,
as my mother stood
holding my hair and crying.
I still thought she was over-reacting.

I looked up at the ER doctor,
middle aged and blonde,
her eyes were sympathetic, but annoyed,
As she asked me if I was trying to **** myself.
"No," I said. Not Yet I thought,
I heard my dry throat crack with the words,
"I have an eating disorder."